


Battle Scars

by Ilovecastiel18



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Doctor John Watson, Forgiveness, Friendship, Gen, Hiding Medical Issues, Hugs, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Torture, Injury, Injury Recovery, Nightmares, Sherlock Holmes Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:20:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25027588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilovecastiel18/pseuds/Ilovecastiel18
Summary: Post-TEH (or maybe a missing scene). John goes over to 221B to work on case with Sherlock, just to find him having a nightmare and falling off the sofa just as he walks in. He finds out about Sherlock being tortured, and tends to his wounds. An emotional conversation ensues. Trigger Warning: torture scars. Hurt/comfort, angst. One-Shot.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 36





	Battle Scars

**Author's Note:**

> While I love John more than I love life, I think TEH should have focused a little more on Sherlock. I think they sort of glazed over how he was tortured for two years in order to focus on John. While I don’t necessarily find this to be a bad thing, I wanted to rectify it with a fic. As always, please leave a review if you like it!

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock, along with its characters, location, etc. are the property of BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own them, though I definitely wouldn’t mind being on a first name basis with Benedict Cumberbatch.

……….

Battle Scars

……….

Sherlock didn’t blame John for being mad about the last two years. Despite what most people said about him, Sherlock really did understand human emotion (some may believe that he understood them more than most), and he really did feel horrible for leaving John to grieve for him.

But the point still stood that he had needed to go away and dismantle Moriarty’s network. It wasn’t a question whether or not he had to do it, he had needed to tear the whole web down, lest Moriarty’s lackies start World War Three without their master.

And, while John believed that Sherlock hadn’t told him he was alive because no one could know, the real reason for the secret was not so simple. Sherlock had not wanted John to worry. Of course, he realized that making John think he was dead was cruel, he felt that leaving John behind and making his friend worry for his life every waking minute was worse. Sherlock would never wish that kind of worry on anyone, especially John, and especially considering that he was in immense danger every second that he was away. He had not wanted John to spend his days worrying, even if the alternative was to leave John grieving.

When Sherlock really thought about it, he knew that he had done this because he loved John. He loved John more than anyone else in the world, possibly even his parents. After all, he had told his parents that he was alive, and let them worry about him every day for the past two years while he spent his days dodging bullets and being tortured until he was nearly dead.

Sherlock sighed and rubbed at a spot on his shoulder where a welt from a particularly nasty whipping was still healing. Every time he moved, every time he breathed, he could feel the welts and scars and bruises that crisscrossed his back stretch out. If he so much as breathed too deeply, he would wince violently and have to sit down. Sherlock hoped that, once the injuries healed, he would be able to move and breathe more freely, but until then he was forced to walk and talk and do everything else very carefully, especially if there were other people around (namely John).

Sherlock walked over to the sofa and dropped onto it unceremoniously, being conscious of the horrible injuries on his back and shoulders. He felt like a nap, he was tired of being conscious and knowing that John was mad at him.

Of course, he knew that John had already forgiven him. But the point stood that they were in a life-threatening situation when that happened, and John still had every right to be pissed about Sherlock leaving him behind to grieve for two years.

So, Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure where their relationship stood, and he wasn’t about to test it by calling John and asking him to come over and discuss their situation.

Sherlock rolled over onto his side, wincing when the wounds on his back stretched. He felt a welt break open and start to leak fluids down his back, but he found that he didn’t much care. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift off to sleep, a certain rugged army doctor occupying every inch of his thoughts.

……….

John had spent the last couple of days seriously thinking about his relationship with Sherlock. He was still so, so mad about Sherlock faking his death and leaving him to grieve for two years. But he also loved Sherlock more than almost anyone else in the world, and he didn’t want their friendship to suffer.

Despite Sherlock’s assurances, John wasn’t entirely convinced that he hadn’t shared his plans because he didn’t want the cat let out of the bag. It would have been a convincing argument, except for the fact that John knew Sherlock too well. He could easily see through Sherlock’s lies. Maybe not all of his bullshit, but definitely his lies. So, John didn’t believe for a second that Sherlock didn’t tell him because he didn’t want the truth shared with the world.

John had thought long and hard, and he had decided that he loved Sherlock too much to continue holding a grudge. After so long without his best friend, he wanted him back in his life.

So, with a kiss to Mary’s cheek, John trudged out of his flat and hailed a cab, directing the driver to Baker Street.

When he reached his old flat, he reached up to ring the doorbell before remembering that Sherlock had probably already shot it or put it in the freezer or done something else to stop it from ringing. John sighed, smiling, as he reached into his pocket for the key that he had never given back to Mrs. Hudson. He had tried to give it to her when he moved out, but she had insisted that he keep it, so he had.

John quietly unlocked the door and walked in, hanging up his coat and kicking off his shoes. He went to look in on Mrs. Hudson before realizing that her door was closed, which meant she was probably sleeping. John smiled and trudged up the stairs to Sherlock’s flat, smiling when he saw that the door was flung wide open as usual. He had missed that.

As John was walking to the door, intending to knock lightly on the doorframe to announce his presence, he heard strange sounds coming from the sofa. Confused, he quietly walked in, smiling when he noticed that Sherlock was napping.

He stopped smiling when Sherlock screamed and flipped onto the floor. Sherlock awoke with a start when he hit the floor, gasping out and twisting violently.

John, immediately entering doctor mode, rushed forward and helped Sherlock to his feet, noticing how his friend flinched every time something, even his shirt, touched his back.

“Jesus, Sherlock, what the hell happened?” John exclaimed, lowering his friend onto the sofa. He sat next to him, at a respectable distance.

“Nothing John, it’s… nothing. What prompted this visit?” Sherlock replied. John absently noticed that, even though he looked exhausted, Sherlock did not lean back into the cushions.

“I wanted to come over and see if there was a case we could work. I realized that you’re my best friend, and I shouldn’t let me anger ruin our friendship. I never thought I would get you back, and now that you are back, I don’t want to waste the time we have left being angry at you.” John admitted, flushing at his rather long-winded explanation.

“Ah, well… I’m glad you’ve come around, John.” Sherlock muttered, looking at the floor.

“I’m still pissed off, Sherlock. Don’t doubt that for a second. But I’m working hard to completely forgive you so we can move past this. I want to be best friends again.”

“You never stopped being my best friend, John.” Sherlock replied, still looking at the floor.

“Didn’t act like it, though, did you?” John snapped. He sighed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that.” He muttered.

“I know you did, John. It’s alright.” Sherlock said. He stood and moved over to his chair, sinking into the cushions but not leaning back.

John followed him, sinking into his own, rather dusty, chair. He had missed his chair. “Sherlock, what’s wrong with your back?” John asked calmly. He watched Sherlock’s face for any sighs of dishonesty.

“Nothing, I’m fine.” Sherlock said, forcing himself to lean back into his chair. John saw him wince slightly.

“You’re lying. I thought we were past the lies?” John said sharply. He was trying to avoid snapping at his friend, hoping that Sherlock would tell him what was wrong if he didn’t get angry, but he wasn’t sure if he could keep up the charade long enough to get Sherlock to talk to him.

“I just got beat up a bit while I was away. I’m fine.” Sherlock repeated. He kept his face neutral, which irritated John.

“Would you like me to take a look? As a doctor?” John asked, barely managing to avoid gritting his teeth.

“Mycroft’s people tended to them when I came back.” Sherlock said.

“And it seems to me that they need to be tended to again, because you have been home for nearly a week and you’re still clearly in a large amount of pain.” John snapped back.

“Look, John, I…”

“I don’t want to hear your bullshit excuses anymore, Sherlock. For once, will you please just tell me the truth? I know you lied when you said you didn’t tell me because you didn’t want me to ‘let the cat out of the bag,’ just like I know you’re lying now when you say that you are fine. Please just tell me the truth.” John interrupted.

Sherlock sighed. “You’re not going to like what you see, John.” He said darkly.

“I was an army doctor, Sherlock. I think you’re underestimating me.” John replied, standing from his chair and holding his hand out to pull Sherlock onto his feet.

“I assure you, I am not.” Sherlock said ominously. He took John’s hand and stood, grabbing the collar of his t-shirt with both hands and pausing. “Are you sure, John?”

John was already halfway to the bathroom to find the first aid kit. “Yes, Sherlock. Stop being difficult and let me help you.”

When John came back, Sherlock was facing him, t-shirt clutched tightly to his stomach. John set the first aid kit on the stand next to his chair and opened it up. When he straightened to see Sherlock still facing him, he sighed loudly.

“Sherlock, for Christ’s sake, turn around.” John snapped. Sherlock grimaced and turned, causing John to nearly faint.

There were whip marks, belt marks, knife slices, and every other kind of injury you could think of crisscrossing Sherlock’s back. there were deep purple bruises, yellowing around the edges from a week of healing. There were deep gouges from what seemed to be belt buckles, and large red welts where Sherlock had been whipped. There were small puncture wounds that were sprinkled around in groups, seemingly made from a whip with barbs at the end. There were clean, deep cuts that were clearly made from big knives. There didn’t seem to be a single inch of skin that wasn’t marred by some kind of torture mark.

John gasped and fell backward into his chair. He felt tears well in his eyes, but he firmly pushed them back. he had to be serious if he was going to help his friend through this.

……….

Sherlock had not expected John to come over, and he had definitely not expected John to deduce that he had been injured, and insist that he help.

Sherlock _did not_ want John to see his back. He did not want John’s sympathy. He wanted their friendship to be fixed because they loved each other, not because John felt bad for him.

So, when John insisted that he clean up Sherlock’s back, Sherlock had nearly sprinted from the room to find the first cab to somewhere other than Baker Street.

But he had not run. He had obediently taken off his shirt, clutching it to his stomach as if his life depended on it. As a last-ditch attempt to avoid the help John was offering, he did not turn around when John returned. He was hoping that, if he seemed stubborn enough, John would just give up and let him be.

But, alas, that didn’t work.

Sherlock grimaced as he turned around, knowing that John was going to be horrified. He was not disappointed.

When he turned around, Sherlock heard John gasp and fall backward into his chair. He didn’t around, wanted to avoid eye contact for as long as possible. It wasn’t that he was ashamed of the injuries, it was just that he didn’t want John to feel sorry for him. He wanted John to continue to see him as the strong, fearless, emotionless creature that he always tried to convey. Now, he wasn’t sure if John had ever seen him that way at all.

Sherlock found that he was just glad that John had not asked about the scream that he knew had proceeded his falling off the sofa. He could deal with John knowing about his torture scars, but his nightmares… he wasn’t sure what he would do if John found out about those.

After a moment, he heard John stand from his chair and move closer to him. He felt John lightly touch one of the welts with his fingers, and he flinched violently. They _hurt._ Sherlock felt John flinch back as if burned, and then heard him rifling around in the first aid kit. He assumed it was for anti-bacterial ointment and some bandages, though he wasn’t sure whether or not he would also need stitches for the cut that opened up on his back earlier.

After a moment, John reached up and touched his shoulder lightly. “One of these cuts is going to need stitches. It looks like it opened back up. Would you like an anesthetic?” he asked quietly. Sherlock could hear that his voice was choked up, and mentally cringed.

“No, thank you.” He replied. He tensed his shoulders as John wiped his back with an antiseptic. He had been stitched up more times than he could count, but it still wasn’t a pleasant feeling. He stood perfectly still, biting the inside of his cheek, for the twenty minutes it took John to stitch up the cut that ran from his left shoulder to just above his right hip.

After that, he felt John wipe antiseptics and anti-bacterial ointment on the worst of the cuts, before carefully bandaging them. John rubbed a little bit of lidocaine ointment into the bruises and closed wounds that he didn’t have to bandage, and Sherlock let a small smile grace his lips at the sentiment that was written into every inch of the act. If John was really, truly angry at him, he wouldn’t have used the lidocaine ointment, choosing to let Sherlock be in pain. But either John was no longer mad, or he felt really sorry for the amount of pain Sherlock must be in, because he gave him pain cream that wasn’t strictly necessary.

When Sherlock heard John closing up the first aid kit, he gingerly pulled his loose t-shirt back over his head, sinking back into his chair without leaning back, lest he bust his stitches or rub off the lidocaine ointment before the pain-relieving effects set in.

When John came back from returning the kit to the kitchen, he sunk into his chair and scrubbed a hand down his face.

“Jesus, Sherlock. I wasn’t expecting that. How did you survive?” John asked quietly.

Sherlock was stuck between telling a partial truth or the whole truth. He wasn’t sure whether he should tell John that thinking of him had kept him sane, or just tell him about Mycroft getting him out.

“Mycroft got me out before they inflicted too much damage.” Sherlock stated simply, deciding to go with the partial truth.

“But ow did you survive before he got you out? None of your wounds are life-threatening, but I can’t even imagine the mental willpower it would take not to break during that level of torture.” John replied.

“You know how my mind, operates, John. I simply entered my mind palace and focused on things that keep me calm and grounded.” Sherlock said, still refusing to explain everything.

“I can’t imagine there had been much in your life that has been calming and grounding.” John muttered, scoffing and sinking back into his chair.

“You would be surprised, John. I have a wonderful best friend who fits those criteria exactly.” Sherlock blurted, mentally kicking himself as soon as it left his lips.

John raised his eyebrows. “…I think that is the first time you have been truly honest with me, Sherlock. I mean, you’re usually brutally honest, but not about your feelings.” John paused, scratching his cheek. “You do the same thing for me, to be honest. You’re my best friend. Thinking about the good times helped me survive when you died.”

Sherlock nodded, looking at the floor.  
  


“Are you willing to be honest with me again?” John asked.

Sherlock scrunched his eyebrows and looked up at his friend.

“Were you having a nightmare when you fell off the sofa earlier?” John asked, not waiting for an answer to his first question.

Sherlock blanched, barely able to keep his mouth from hanging open.

“Please, Sherlock. You’ve been my best friend for years. I may not be as smart as you, but I’ve picked up a few tricks. I can tell when someone is having a nightmare, especially when they scream and flail so hard that fall off a sofa.” John said, smirking.

“Um… yes, I was.” Sherlock answered quietly. He suddenly had a very strong desire to get up and run from the room as fast as possible.

“I’m assuming it was about the torture?” John asked. Sherlock flinched.

“Yes.” Sherlock replied, nearly in a whisper.

“Well, I’m glad you told me.” John stood from his chair and walked over to Sherlock, reaching out and squeezing his shoulder. “I know I was angry when you came back, and frankly I still am. But you’re my best friend, and I love you, and I want to make sure that you are okay. The first step to achieving that is for you to be honest with me.”

In a moment of bravery that even Sherlock didn’t know he was capable of, Sherlock leaned sideways and rested his head against John’s stomach. John stiffened, then reached down and ran his fingers lightly through Sherlock’s hair.

“I didn’t think I would survive, John. I thought I would die trying to dismantle Moriarty’s network. I was sure of it. I didn’t tell you I was alive because I didn’t want to make you worry about me, probably for years, just to have me die for real. I thought it was cruel. I know that what I did to you was cruel, but I thought it would be worse for you if I told you. I am so, so sorry.” Sherlock whispered. “You are my best friend, and I love you very much. I was never sure that I was capable of love until I met you. Sure, I love my parents, and I love Mycroft, even though he’s an annoying git. But I never thought I could love past that.” Sherlock straightened and looked up into John’s eyes. “You mean so much to me, John. I am so sorry for what I put you through. I do not think I could survive your loss the way you survived mine.” Sherlock felt tears pooling in his eyes, but for once, he let them fall instead of pushing them back.

“I forgive you, Sherlock. Of course I do. I was so alone before I met you. You changed my whole world, and for that I will always be grateful. I owe you so much. I refuse to let the last two years ruin the best relationship I have ever had in my life.” John pressed Sherlock’s face back into his stomach, hugging the detective’s head to his body seemingly to try to convey exactly how much he loved the ridiculous detective.

After everything that had happened, everything that they had went through together, Sherlock was sure that they would survive this. He felt sure that the Baker Street boys would be in action for many, many more years together. And he couldn’t possibly be happier about it.


End file.
